Silas Boone knew Boss had three kids—an oldest girl, just old enough to start thinking about life beyond the farm, and two younger boys who were always tearing through the fields. He didn’t know much else about them; he kept his distance, just as he did with most folks.

The day was sweltering, the kind that made the air feel heavy and thick. Silas had holed up in the shed, where it was cooler, repairing a wagon wheel. The smell of hay and oil hung in the air, and the rhythmic sound of his hammer hitting wood filled the space.

It was lunchtime, and he’d been expecting the Boss’s wife to show up with a tin of food like she always did. But instead, light footsteps crunched outside. He glanced toward the door and froze.

Standing there, framed by the sunlight, was a girl holding a small container. Her frame was small, almost fragile-looking, and she hesitated just inside the doorway, her fingers tight around the handle of the tin. She was young—barely more than a woman—and something about her made Silas pause.

She looked... gentle, like she didn’t belong to the rough, dusty world of the farm. Silas straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. She didn’t speak, just stood there, almost uncertain.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, and Silas couldn’t help but wonder: who was she, and why did she seem so out of place?